The Final Hunger Games (76) - Oneshot
by justreadingonthebeach
Summary: This is basically a oneshot from the perspective of Snow's granddaughter which I wrote right after watching Mockingjay Part Two.
I never wanted this.

Then again, who would?

I suppose that fact makes me similar to the infamous "Mockingjay".

In the beginning, like everyone else, I succumbed to the idea of Katniss's romance and underdog story of self sacrifice. Now her decision making has contributed to what will undoubtably be my own brutal death.

In the Capitol, we were all taught about the fairness which the Hunger Games enveloped and how to dress appropriately for parties or apply makeup. No class discussed how to tie a knot or search for food or kill someone. Everything was provided with a snap of our fingers and now everything is gone.

Tomorrow I'll be thrown into an arena, as 1,702 teenagers were before me and if I want to survive…who am I kidding? I'm going to be one of the first targets to die. It was **my** grandfather who failed. **My** grandfather who surrendered to the point of Katniss Everdeen's arrow. Because of him, Alma Coin seized authority and because of them I will face death at the age of fifteen.

After everything they have been through, you would think that they would have enough decency to restrain from subjecting others to the same torture they endured. But the victors will sleep soundly tonight and I will toss and turn and stare out at the damn city which has nearly been destroyed.

—

I've never loved anyone. Not romantically, anyway. For a split second a part of me selfishly thought that maybe, just maybe my male companion in this horror show would be the perfect match and somehow we could survive. Instead, I ended up with a rainbow haired, obnoxiously talkative, pig headed boy named Ontario. Maybe if we were on the same side, if we could work together, then I would stand a chance. The way my reality stands, however, this is not the case and I will not fall in love, and the boy who refuses to look at me will never have the opportunity to open his eyes.

I take a final breath of the recirculated air as I observe the sunlight drifting into the room. This bed will have been the last bed I slept in. Last night's dinner was my final (proper) meal. In a few short hours my blood will spill onto an unknown area of land and the blood circulating through my arteries will decelerate and my brain will no longer produce thoughts or waves and my heart will produce one final beat. I will no longer be a person, but a corpse lying beneath my killer. They'll probably burn me and throw away the ashes just as they did with my grandfather.

The journey to the underground area below the arena is uneventful and I zone out whenever possibly. In the hovercraft, each set of eyes seems to be focused on me and I'm certain that there is an unknown competition going around over who can cause my imminent demise first.

No one greets me as I shakily step into the tube. My eyes begin to water and my throat feels extraordinarily dry as the round sheet of metal forces my body upward. By the time the daylight blinds me, tears are rolling down my cheeks and my lungs are struggling to breathe.

In that moment, as the flashing numbers ahead of me make their way down to zero, a thought enters my mind. Why should I allow anyone the pleasure of my death? I've never been able to make my own choices, never been known as anyone but "President Snow's Granddaughter". I have the ability to be the girl who protested the selfish and uncaring decision of victors. My time to carefully decide my own courage slips away at the change of each digit, so I wipe away my tears.

Twenty-Nine.

—

Twenty-Eight.

—

Twenty-Seven.

—

Twenty-Six.

—

Twenty-Five.

—

Twenty-Four.

—

My feet drift towards the edge of the pedestal and I am no longer Frona Snow. I am a teenager with a final wish of control. I am a human being born into an unfavorable fate that will not perish at the hands of another man's blade. Maybe now my mentor will realize just how far from evil I am. Maybe someone who stands a chance will win what I hope will be the final round of the games…

Nineteen.

—

Eighteen.

—

The bottom of my basic, ugly shoes press the blades of grass below me down and I only feel the waves of the explosion and the tingle of fire for a moment before the world surrounding me turns white. There are no flashbacks, or feelings of warmth (besides what I'm sure is the sensation of my nervous system being diminished to ashes). I only produce one final thought, one last sentence before I become an image in the sky or the boom of a canon:

I hope the rebels are grateful for the cost of cremation and transportation I have saved them.

Happy 76th Hunger Games. May the odds be ever in your favor.


End file.
